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Elizabeth Bowen-The Demon Lover
Elizabeth Bowen-The Demon Lover
“The Demon Lover”
Elizabeth Bowen
Toward the end of her day in London Mrs. Drover went round to her shutup
house to look for several things she wanted to take away. Some belonged to herself, some
to her family, who were by now used to their country life. It was late August; it had been
a steamy, showery day: At the moment the trees down the pavement glittered in an
escape of humid yellow afternoon sun. Against the next batch of clouds, already piling up
inkdark, broken chimneys and parapets 1 stood out. In her once familiar street, as in any
unused channel, an unfamiliar queerness had silted up; a cat wove itself in and out of
railings, but no human eye watched Mrs. Dover’s return. Shifting some parcels under her
arm, she slowly forced round her latchkey in an unwilling lock, then gave the door, which
had warped, a push with her knee. Dead air came out to meet her as she went in.
The staircase window having been boarded up, no light came down into the hall.
But one door, she could just see, stood ajar, so she went quickly through into the room
and unshuttered the big window in there. Now the prosaic woman, looking about her, was
more perplexed than she knew by everything that she saw, by traces of her long former
habit of life—the yellow smoke stain up the white marble mantelpiece, the ring left by a
vase on the top of the escritoire; 2 the bruise in the wallpaper where, on the door being
thrown open widely, the china handle had always hit the wall. The piano, having gone
away to be stored, had left what looked like claw marks on its part of the parquet. 3
Though not much dust had seeped in, each object wore a film of another kind; and, the
only ventilation being the chimney, the whole drawing room smelled of the cold hearth.
Mrs. Drover put down her parcels on the escritoire and left the room to proceed upstairs;
the things she wanted were in a bedroom chest.
She had been anxious to see how the house was—the parttime caretaker she
shared with some neighbors was away this week on his holiday, known to be not yet
back. At the best of times he did not look in often, and she was never sure that she trusted
him. There were some cracks in the structure, left by the last bombing, on which she was
anxious to keep an eye. Not that one could do anything—
A shaft of refracted daylight now lay across the hall. She stopped dead and stared
at the hall table—on this lay a letter addressed to her.
She thought first—then the caretaker must be back. All the same, who, seeing the
house shutttered, would have dropped a letter in at the box? It was not a circular, it was
not a bill. And the post office redirected, to the address in the country, everything for her
that came through the post. The caretaker (even if he were back) did not know she was
due in London today—her call here had been planned to be a surprise—so his negligence
in the manner of this letter, leaving it to wait in the dust, annoyed her. Annoyed, she
picked up the letter, which bore no stamp. But it cannot be important, or they would
know . . . She took the letter rapidly upstairs with her, without a stop to look at the
writing till she let in light. The room looked over the garden and sharpened and lowered,
the trees and rank lawns seemed already to smoke with dark. Her reluctance to look again
at the letter came from the fact that she felt intruded upon—and by someone
1
parapets: low walls around rooftops.
2
escritoire: writing table.
3
parquet: wood floor made of boards arranged in geometric patterns.
Page 2
contemptuous of her ways. However, in the tenseness preceding the fall of rain she read
it: It was a few lines.
Dear Kathleen: You will not have forgotten that today is our anniversary, and the
day we said. The years have gone by at once slowly and fast. In view of the fact
that nothing has changed, I shall rely upon you to keep your promise. I was sorry
to see you leave London, but was satisfied that you would be back in time. You
may expect me, therefore, at the hour arranged. Until then . . . K.
Mrs. Drover looked for the date: It was today’s. She dropped the letter onto the
bedsprings, then picked it up to see the writing again—her lips, beneath the remains of
lipstick, beginning to go white. She felt so much the change in her own face that she sent
to the mirror, polished a clear patch in it, and looked at once urgently and stealthily in.
She was confronted by a woman of fortyfour, with eyes starting out under a hat brim
that had been rather carelessly pulled down. She had not put on any more powder since
she left the shop where she ate her solitary tea. 4 The pearls her husband had given her on
their marriage hung loose round her now rather thinner throat, slipping in the V of the
pink wool jumper her sister knitted last autumn as they sat round the fire. Mrs. Drover’s
most normal expression was one of controlled worry but of assent. Since the birth of the
third of her little boys, attended by a quite serious illness, she had had an intermittent
muscular flicker to the left of her mouth, but in spite of this she could always sustain a
manner that was at once energetic and calm.
Turning from her own face as precipitously as she had gone to meet it, she went
to the chest where the things were, unlocked it, threw up the lid, and knelt to search. But
as rain began to come crashing down she could not keep from looking over her shoulder
at the stripped bed on which the letter lay. Behind the blanket of rain the clock of the
church that still stood struck six—with rapidly heightening apprehension she counted
each of the slow strokes. “The hour arranged . . . My God,” she said, “what hour? How
should I . . . ? After twentyfive years . . . “
The young girl talking to the soldier in the garden had not ever completely seen his face.
It was dark; they were saying goodbye under a tree. Now and then—for it felt, from not
seeing him at this intense moment, as though she had never seen him at all—she verified
his presence for these few moments longer by putting out a hand, which he each time
pressed, without very much kindness, and painfully, on to one of the breast buttons of his
uniform. That cut of the button on the palm of her hand was, principally, what she was to
carry away. This was so near the end of a leave from France that she could only wish him
already gone. It was August 1916. Being not kissed, being drawn away from and looked
at intimidated Kathleen till she imagined spectral glitters in the place of his eyes. Turning
away and looking back up the lawn she saw, through branches of trees, the drawingroom
window alight: She caught a breath for the moment when she could go running back
there into the safe arms of her mother and sister, and cry: “What shall I do, what shall I
do? He has gone.”
Hearing her catch her breath, her fiancé said, without feeling: “Cold?”
“You’re going away such a long way.”
4
tea: in Britain, a light, afternoon meal, served with tea.
Page 3
“Not so far as you think.”
“I don’t understand?”
“You don’t have to,” he said. “You will. You know what we said.”
“But that was—suppose you—I mean, suppose.”
“I shall be with you,” he said, “sooner or later. You won’t forget that. You need
do nothing but wait.”
Only a little more than a minute later she was free to run up the silent lawn.
Looking in through the window at her mother and sister, who did not for the moment
perceive her, she already felt that unnatural promise drive down between her and the rest
of all humankind. No other way of having given herself could have made her feel so
apart, lost and forsworn. 5 She could not have plighted a more sinister troth. 6
Kathleen behaved well when, some months later, her fiancé was reported missing,
presumed killed. Her family not only supported her but were able to praise her courage
without stint because they could not regret, as a husband for her, the man they knew
almost nothing about. They hoped she would, in a year or two, console herself—and had
it been only a question of consolation things might have gone much straighter ahead. But
her trouble, behind just a little grief, was a complete dislocation from everything. She did
not reject other lovers, for these failed to appear. For years, she failed to attract men—and
with the approach of her thirties she became natural enough to share her family’s
anxiousness on the score. She began to put herself out, 7 to wonder, and at thirtytwo she
was very greatly relieved to find herself being courted by William Drover. She married
him, and the two of them settled down in the quiet, arboreal 8 part of Kensington: In this
house the years piled up, her children were born, and they all lived till they were driven
out by the bombs of the next war. Her movements as Mrs. Drover were circumscribed,
and she dismissed any idea that they were still watched.
As things were—dead or living the letter writer sent her only a threat. Unable, for
some minutes, to go on kneeling with her back exposed to the empty room, Mrs. Drover
rose from the chest to sit on an upright chair whose back was firmly against the wall. The
desuetude 9 of her former bedroom, her married London home’s whole air of being a
cracked cup from which memory, with its reassuring power, had either evaporated or
leaked away, made a crisis—and at just this crisis the letter writer had, knowledgeably,
struck. The hollowness of the house this evening cancelled years on years of voices,
habits, and steps. Through the shut windows she only heard rain fall on the roofs around.
To rally herself, she said she was in a mood—and for two or three seconds shutting her
eyes, told herself that she had imagined the letter. But she opened them—there it lay on
the bed.
On the supernatural side of the letter’s entrance she was not permitting her mind
to dwell. Who, in London, knew she meant to call at the house today? Evidently,
however, that had been known. The caretaker, had he come back, had had no cause to
expect her: He would have taken the letter in his pocket, to forward it, at his own time,
through the post. There was no other sign that the caretaker had been in—but, if not?
5
forsworn: having lied under oath; perjured.
6
plighted . . . troth: made a more sinister promise of marriage.
7
put herself out: vex or distress herself.
8
arboreal: full of trees.
9
desuetude: disuse.
Page 4
Letters dropped in at doors of deserted houses do not fly or walk to tables in halls. They
do not sit on the dust of empty tables with the air of certainty that they will be found.
There is needed some human hand—but nobody bot the caretaker had a key. Under the
circumstances she did not care to consider, a house can be entered without a key. It was
possible that she was not alone now. She might be being waited for, downstairs. Waited
for—until when? Until “the hour arranged.” At least that was not six o’clock: Six has
struck.
She rose from the chair and went over and locked the door.
The thing was, to get out. To fly? No, not that: She had to catch her train. As a
woman whose utter dependability was the keystone of her family life, she was not willing
to return to the country, to her husband, her little boys, and her sister, without the objects
she had come up to fetch. Resuming her work at the chest she set about making up a
number of parcels in a rapid, fumblingdecisive way. These, with her shopping parcels,
would be too much to carry; these meant a taxi—at the thought of the taxi her heart went
up and her normal breathing resumed. I will ring up the taxi; the taxi cannot come too
soon: I shall hear the taxi out there running its engine, till I walk calmly down to it
through the hall. I’ll ring up—But no: the telephone is cut off . . . She tugged at a knot
she had tied wrong.
The idea of flight . . . He was never kind to me, not really. I don’t remember him
kind at all. Mother said he never considered me. He was set on me, that was what it
was—not love. Not love, not meaning a person well. What did he do, to make me
promise like that? I can’t remember—But she found that she could.
She remembered with such dreadful acuteness that the twentyfive years since
then dissolved like smoke and she instinctively looked for the weal 10 left by the button on
the palm of her hand. She remembered not only all that he said and did but the complete
suspension of her existence during that August week. I was not myself—they all told me
so at the time. She remembered—but with one white burning blank as where acid has
dropped on a photograph: Under no conditions could she remember his face.
So, wherever he may be waiting, I shall not know him. You have no time to run
from a face you do not expect.
The thing was to get to the taxi before any clock struck what could be the hour.
She would slip down the street and round the side of the square to where the square gave
on the main road. She would return in the taxi, safe, to her own door, and bring the solid
driver into the house with her to pick up the parcels from room to room. The idea of the
taxi driver made her decisive, bold: She unlocked her door, went to the top of the
staircase, and listened down.
She heard nothing—but while she was hearing nothing the passé 11 air of the
staircase was disturbed by a draft that traveled up to her face. It emanated from the
basement: Down where a door or window was being opened by someone who chose this
moment to leave the house.
The rain had stopped; the pavements steamily shone as Mrs. Drover let herself out
by inches from her own front door into the empty street. The unoccupied houses opposite
continued to meet her look with their damaged stare. Making toward the thoroughfare
and the taxi, she tried not to keep looking behind. Indeed, the silence was so intense—one
10
weal: lump; welt.
11
passé: no longer fresh; rather old.
Page 5
of those creeks of London silence exaggerated this summer by the damage of war—that
no tread could have gained on hers unheard. Where her street debouched 12 on the square
where people went on living, she grew conscious of, and checked, her unnatural pace.
Across the open end of the square, two buses impassively passed each other: Women, a
perambulator, 13 cyclists, a man wheeling a barrow signalized, once again, the ordinary
flow of life. At the square’s most populous corner should be—and was—the short taxi
rank. This evening, only one taxi—but this, although it presented its blank rump,
appeared already to alertly waiting for her. Indeed, without looking round the driver
started his engine as she panted up from behind and put her hand on the door. As she did
so, the clock struck seven. The taxi faced the main road: To make the trip back to her
house it would have to turn—she had settled back on the seat and the taxi had turned
before she, surprised by its knowing movement, recollected that she had not “said
where.” She leaned forward to scratch at the class panel that divided the driver’s head
from her own.
The driver braked to what was almost a stop, turned round, and slid the glass
panel back: The jolt of this flung Mrs. Drover forward till her face was almost into the
glass. Through the aperture driver and passenger, not six inches between them, remained
for an eternity eye to eye. Mrs. Drover’s mouth hung open for some seconds before she
could issue her first scream. After that she continued to scream freely and to beat with her
gloved hands on the glass all round as the taxi, accelerating without mercy, made off with
her into the hinterland of deserted streets.
12
debouched: came out; emerged.
13
perambulator: chiefly British for “baby carriage.” The word is often shortened to pram.